Chapter 15 Chelsea
Chelsea
The next morning I wake up before the rest of the house. It’s still dark when I slip out of my dress and change into leggings, a T-shirt and sneakers.
As much as I try to push last night out of my head, it won’t leave. The feel of Eryx’s cold magic sliding across my skin lives rent-free in my head.
And the worst part is, now that I’ve had time to digest it, it wasn’t just terrifying.
It was alluring—pulling, enticing me and my magic to join it.
No.
Stop.
It wasn’t alluring. It was wrong.
End of story.
I pad quietly down the stairs and out of the house. It’s cool in the early morning hours, and in the distance I spot the glow of the barrier.
It pulses like the thing’s breathing, alive, calling to me.
Nope. Not calling. I refuse to believe it’s calling.
I run through Castleview, doing everything I can to push the last traces of the ball from my mind. My feet pound the concrete hard, and I pump my legs faster than I have in months. When I break into a sweat, it feels good, earned, like I’m doing something right.
Which I am. This is good. This is normal.
This is my life.
But the image of those roses keeps flaring in my mind, circling like a buzzard. My magic hasn’t been that powerful in months, but suddenly when it mixed with his, it took off.
Why? How? What does that mean?
Not for me, but for my family.
I run until the first traces of daylight smear across the sky, and it’s only then that I head back to the house.
My family’s cottage greets me by closing and opening the window shutters. “Good morning, House!”
I head into the kitchen, where my mom and dad are. Mama butters a slice of toast while Dad reads the local news.
When I walk in, Mama drops her toast. “Phillip,” she squeaks.
Dad looks up from his paper, sees me, and his jaw drops. “Chelsea.”
What’s going on? I mimic his abrupt tone. “Dad. Mom. Where is everyone?”
Mama yawns. “Asleep. We didn’t get back until late.”
“You mean early,” Dad corrects.
I pour a glass of water, grab a slice of toast and drop into a chair. My parents look at me.
I look at them right back.
My mother nudges him with her elbow. “Oh, right,” Dad says. “Look, Chelsea about this business of you getting engaged—”
I roll my eyes. “Do we have to talk about this again? Ovie canceled the ball, but I’m not the only daughter who can get married, you know. Dallas and Emory are both old enough.”
My parents exchange a confused look. “But you are engaged,” Dad says.
It’s my turn to drop a slice of toast. “What?” It lands butter side up on the tile floor, and I grab it. When I straighten, I bump my head against the table. “Ow.” I rub the spot. “What are you talking about, I’m engaged?”
Mama sits in a chair across from me. She threads her fingers together and stares down at her hands.
Oh no. That’s not good. Whenever she does that, it means she’s thinking about something weighty.
She clears her throat, an even worse sign. “Last night, at the ball, the Nightmare King—what’s his name?”
“Eryx,” my dad and I answer.
“Well, he said that he was marrying you.”
The toast slips from my fingers, but this time I don’t care. I stand up, knocking my chair onto the floor, and I yell at the top of my lungs, “What?”
Before either of them can answer, a trill sounds in the kitchen. Mama taps the air, and it crackles like it’s deciding whether or not it wants to open. After a stretch of silence, the air cracks again, and this time Ovie’s head appears, hovering over the table.
Ovie.
Uncle Charlie. Oh no. I haven’t told her about what I saw. And what did I see? Charlie flirting? That wouldn’t be a surprise to Ovie.
But him seeing me, seeing him and then him following me means it was more than flirting.
A sour taste settles in my mouth.
Their relationship is the whole reason why I’ve rejected marriage. Because of Charlie.
I refuse to wind up tied to my own version of him.
“Claire, Phillip, y’all need to get down to the bookstore. Stat,” Ovie says, eyes wide.
Mama stands. “Why? What’s going on?”
“The whole place is…well, it’s having the biggest conniption fit I’ve ever seen.”
“We’ll be right there.”
Ovie’s face blips out. Mama rises. “We’ll talk about the nightmare situation later—”
“Yeah, we will,” I mutter.
She shoots me a dark look. “Right now let’s get down to the bookstore. I can only hope our magic isn’t so broken we can’t fix whatever’s happening.”
My chest quivers when we arrive. The store, fondly referred to as the Bookshop of Magic, appears to be vomiting books.
The shop runs on our family's power. When it weakens, the store destabilizes. But I've never seen it this bad. It feels sudden. Wrong.
It’s just coincidence, Chelsea. The magic was dying anyway. This has nothing to do with him.
All the books, all at once, from every window and door, shoot toward us.
“All hands on deck,” Dad calls.
“There’s no way our magic can fix this,” I whisper.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Dallas quips beside me.
A knot the size of a baseball clogs my throat. I swallow it down and throw out my arms, willing the books to go back inside.
But the surge of power I experienced last night is gone, and in its place is a puttering engine, coughing and choking.
Books pour from the door out onto the street. The same goes for the windows. It looks like someone is shooting them from a canon.
Even the guard books—books that snap and bite—are outside, desperately trying to get back in.
We’re standing in a line, throwing magic at the store, with nothing happening in return, and as if to mock us, the store’s magic that holds it together, seems to break even more. A huge crash comes from the belly of the shop, and next thing I know—
A mountain of books gushes out into the street, sweeping us up with it and throwing us to the other side of the road.
There’s nothing quite like being caught up in a tidal wave of pointy-edged books.
“Ow.” I stumble to my feet and rub my side. “That hurt.”
Emory rubs the back of her neck. “You could say that again.”
Dallas’s eyes become big as plates. “Don’t look now, but it’s not over.”
Another wave of books surges from the mouth of the store. This one shoots up into the sky like a dozen arrows, and when they begin to fall, they’re aimed straight at us.
We’ll be pounded by books—heavy, lethal books.
With my magic gone—correction, with all our magic gone—I raise my hands to block the onslaught, silently praying I don’t wind up with head trauma.
But the impact never comes.
The store has gone still. There’s a metallic zing to the atmosphere, similar to the feel of post-rain ozone on my skin.
I slowly lower my arms and look up. The books hang in the air, suspended. Even the ones shooting from the shop have stopped, levitating as if they’re frozen in time.
My gaze darts over to my parents. Is one of them doing this? Did our magic somehow get fixed?
But my parents are both looking up, too, their expressions laced with as much confusion as mine.
Books encase my legs, so after some difficulty lifting one leg, then the other, stumbling onto the books surrounding me on all sides, I finally turn around and see what’s stopped the books.
Not a what.
A whom.
Eryx, the Nightmare King, stands behind me dressed in a black suit lined with silver thread.
My stomach drops. Him. This man. This man who invaded my magic, who pushes and pulls, smirks.
He smirks.
I clench my fists, and with as much grace as a monkey trying to ice skate, I climb over the pile of books and stumble toward him.
“You! How dare you tell people we’re engaged! What right do you have?”
He glances at the hand holding up the books, then back at me. “Would you like me to let go?”
I grind out, “No.”
His expression shifts—just for a moment. Something that might be regret. "You're right. I should have asked first. But I'm asking now. You and I should talk.”
“About what?”
His eyes twinkle with way too much delight. “About why you should say yes.”